


Partners

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [13]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2684945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn needs to be upgraded</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partners

Title: Partners

Authors: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Qui/Obi, Alternate Reality, Romance, Angst

Rating: PG

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just building castles in the sand.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie, notre betas par excellence!

 

Feedback: please feed the hungry bunnies 

 

SUMMARY: Quinn needs an upgrade

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben booted up his laptop in his office, ready to plan out his work day. Skimming through the work orders, he was surprised to find an email from Quinn. Marked PRIVATE. Holy crap. Quinn had actually sent him an *email?* Or maybe he’d just bribed Ani to send it for him. Ben grinned as he double-clicked his mouse.

 

Good afternoon, Ben,

 

Might I draw upon your particular expertise this weekend? I am experiencing  
some problems with my home computer and would appreciate the benefit of  
your assistance. 

 

I can offer lunch of your choice and any amount of overtime you feel appropriate. 

 

Yours desperately,

 

Q J Donovan

 

Innocent enough, even a characteristic touch of humor. “Yours desperately.” Ben could certainly understand Quinn having problems with that archaeological dig of a home office. Beautiful room, tastefully furnished, but the computer was probably older than the antique desk on which it sat. 

 

Okay, so was he supposed to treat this as just a request from a faculty member for IT assistance, or was there more to it? Quinn typically sent a handwritten note mid-week with suggested weekend plans, dedicatedly keeping their personal relationship off campus and private. It was just one of the little foibles Ben enjoyed about his unabashedly idiosyncratic lover.

 

After considering for a moment, he responded:

 

Good afternoon, Professor Donovan,

 

Received your request for assistance. I can come by Saturday morning, if  
convenient. 

Please give me an idea as to what problems you are experiencing, so I have  
a better idea of what to bring with me. 

 

Thanks.

 

B Kensington

 

The response was almost immediate, as if Quinn had been anxiously awaiting his answer:

 

Ben,

 

Thank you for your timely response. 

 

I hardly know how to describe the problem, except that the blamed thing just  
doesn’t work. Probably ready for retirement, much like its owner. Bring the  
big guns and maybe we can put it – and me -- out of my misery.

 

Shall we say 10:00 Saturday morning? 

 

Thank you again.

 

QJD

 

Okay, maybe Ani *didn’t* send it after all, unless the boy was sitting right there in Quinn’s office waiting to help him reply. Ben chuckled at the inherent frustration in the message. Poor Quinn, born in the wrong century, and a fish out of water when it came to anything electronic. Maybe this would be a good time to suggest overhauling the entire system. 

 

~*~*~*~

Ben straightened and ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “I think it’s had it,” he muttered.

“As in?” Quinn asked apprehensively from the other side of the room, where he had carefully positioned himself, out of the line of fire.

“As in it’s kaput. It needs to be jettisoned.” He mimed shooting the computer and blowing smoke off his fingertip. “This dinosaur’s been on life support for at least ten years now.” He gave his lover a sardonic grin. “Maybe longer.”

“Oh dear,” Quinn murmured, but made no other comment. 

“Would you like to go shopping this afternoon? I can help you pick out a replacement you’d be comfortable with,” Ben offered, though he sensed Quinn’s mind was somehow all that focused on the problem at hand. “As a matter of fact, this would be a good time to think about upgrading the whole set-up.” He gestured to the dot matrix printer on the bookshelf next to the desk. “That thing should be in a museum, behind glass. How long since it actually *worked?*”

“A while,” Quinn admitted. “I’ve tried to delay the inevitable, but...” With a rueful sigh, he moved toward the door. “I suppose we’d better box it up and give it a decent burial somewhere, eh, lad?” 

Ben nodded sympathetically. “I’ll get some cartons from the storage closet.” He unplugged the equipment, carefully coiling each power cord around its respective component, while mentally cataloging what would best suit Quinn’s purposes. Powerful, but simple enough to operate that Quinn wouldn’t pitch it out the window when he couldn’t get past the log-on screen.

They surveyed the room, each lost in thought. Quinn moved to the big desk, tapped it reflectively, then straightened and turned. Ben, who had been enjoying the view of Quinn’s ass, grinned sheepishly when Quinn pointedly cleared his throat.

“Ben, have you ever seen a partners’ desk?” 

 

Ben frowned. “I’ve heard the term before. Why?”

 

“*This* is a partners’ desk. Adele insists it should be displayed as such, but…” He shrugged. “I think she may have finally convinced me.” 

 

“Not sure I follow,” Ben said, edging around Quinn’s shoulder to get a better look. The desk was a beauty; he’d admired it before. 

 

“Simple. We turn it ninety degrees. It opens on both sides, you see, with drawers and everything, so that two people can work at it together. As in partners, understand?” He made a sweeping movement with his arm. “Add another desk chair, et voila.” 

 

Ben had to admit it had a certain aesthetic appeal. For a brief wistful moment, he imagined himself opposite Quinn, companionably working on their respective tasks. Which segued into an image of himself leaning over that same desk, pants around his ankles and Quinn driving into him from behind. Okay, cool it, he told himself firmly. This is a business call, remember? “Well, I can see a couple of possible logistics problems,” he said, struggling to focus, “but yeah, it could work. And if you put your chair here, then you could just swivel around and reach behind you, too,” pointing to the scarred drop-leaf table groaning under the weight of textbooks and assorted paraphernalia. “But you do realize it’s gonna be a real *bitch* to move that desk. Does it come apart? It must, unless you built the house around it.” It looked like a heart attack looking for a place to happen. 

 

Quinn chuckled. “Yes, rather easily, in fact. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. Only took me and half the Academy wrestling team to get it on a truck. I found it in the old railroad office downtown. Looked *nothing* like it does now, of course. They were going to throw it away, practically gave it to me and doubtless thought I was the world’s biggest chump for taking it off their hands. It was covered in layers of God-awful pea-green paint, with ugly oversized wooden pulls. But it was *big,* and that’s what I needed.” He grimaced and flexed his fingers, remembering. “I decided to refinish it myself, and I don’t think I’ve ever worked that hard on anything before or since. But imagine my delight to find out it was *solid walnut* underneath all that gunk!” He lovingly caressed the smooth wood. “Adele suggested the leather top – the original was all but destroyed. And look at the little brass feet. No one even knew they were there; *they’d* been painted over, too! And don’t the Baldwin Brass pulls just finish it off perfectly?”

 

Ben nodded, amused as always by his lover’s passion for a bargain. Any bargain. The brownstone was full of “rescue” items, each with its own unique and colorful history. His personal favorite was the big wooden mantel over the living room fireplace, made from a centuries-old floor beam salvaged from a demolition site in Tuscany during a summer vacation. Ben suspected virtually nothing in the house had been purchased new, or at full price. It wasn’t as if the man couldn’t afford to buy pretty much anything he wanted. It was the thrill of the hunt. Quinn Donovan haggling like a fishmonger in an open-air market was a scene worthy of Shakespeare. And no seller stood a chance if he and Adele joined forces. They could have made a fortune hosting seminars on “The Fine Art of Cutthroat Negotiation.”

 

“It’s beautiful, Quinn,” Ben said appreciatively, “and if the room can hold it turned that way, it’d be really something. But could I make a couple of suggestions that might make it work even better for you? From an efficiency point of view?”

 

Quinn regally inclined his head. “I’m listening.” 

 

Ben tapped the big computer monitor. “This thing is taking up a lot of space. And it’s really unproductive, too.” He held up a hand, forestalling Quinn’s objections. “No, hear me out. I know you don’t relate to anything that isn’t at least two hundred years old or made of solid wood, but this is *my* area of expertise, remember.” He did some rapid mental calculations on square footage. “Get rid of the ‘boat anchor’ here,” he patted the monitor again, “and the ‘doorstop’” – nudging the (thankfully) defunct CPU tower on the floor with his foot – “and get yourself a laptop with some power. A flat-screen monitor would take up almost no space at all, and trust me, your eyes will thank you for it.”

 

“Ben-”

 

“Wait, I’m not finished. Replace that obnoxious overhead light, or at least put in some auxiliary lighting. Maybe a nice desk lamp; track lighting would be even better.” He leaned over the side of the desk again. “Oh good, you already have a phone jack in here. With a two-line phone, you could have a fax machine-”

 

“*Ben-*”

 

“Oh, and you’ll definitely need to upgrade that printer, too. I seriously doubt there are drivers still available for that one. An all-in-one color laser would be ideal. Let’s see, you’ll want a docking station, and an auxiliary keyboard, so your shoulders don’t cramp up. Maybe a back-up hard drive-” He was really In the Moment now.

 

“*BEN!*”

 

Ben whirled around at the roar behind him – boy, the man had a good set of lungs on him. 

 

Quinn’s eyes were closed and he looked as if he were warding off a blow. His trembling outstretched hand thrust a credit card in Ben’s direction. 

 

“Quinn, are you all right? Do you need a doctor, or-”

 

“*Take* it. Get whatever you think best, whatever it takes. Just don’t ask me to go with you.” He slowly opened his eyes as a gusty sigh escaped his lips. “I have absolutely *no* idea what you’re talking about, but it’s obvious you do. I bow to your expertise. Take care of it.” He tossed the card onto the desk, turned and walked out of the room. 

 

Ben picked up the Platinum Visa and stared at it for a long moment. Just like that? No way. Nuh uh. 

 

He found Quinn in the kitchen brewing tea, his panacea in any crisis. He glanced up as Ben hesitantly entered, holding the card as if it were a ticking time bomb. The deep-set blue eyes rolled briefly skyward with a clear “Lord, give me strength” expression, then he bravely turned back to Ben. “Yes, love?”

 

“Quinn, I didn’t mean to offend, I-”

 

“You haven’t. Tea?”

 

“Sure, thanks. Quinn, look, it was just a suggestion. I know I can get carried away sometimes-”

 

“And *I* don’t? You’re more than patient with me when I go off on something that interests me. Unfortunately, when we get into anything” – he shuddered exaggeratedly – “high-tech, I am completely out of my depth. And I’m man enough to admit it. Therefore,” he stirred his tea and gestured to the Visa in Ben’s hand, “I am retaining you as my personal technology consultant. You will review the situation, recommend what is needed and make all necessary purchases. I assume installation and training will be included? Excellent. We can work out wages and other details later.” He handed Ben a steaming mug and sipped from his own with an air of having irrevocably settled the matter.

 

Ben was dumbfounded. Consultant? *Hired?* The man couldn’t be serious. “I don’t want your money, Quinn. I was just trying to point out how much easier it would be for you if-”

 

“Nonsense. If you were doing this for anyone else, you’d expect to be paid, wouldn’t you? Of course you would. And this hardly falls within the scope of your campus duties. We’re talking about a private consulting contract, so we can set our own terms and conditions. No arguments. You will *not* be doing this for free.” He snorted derisively. “The very idea.” 

 

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Quinn again overrode his objections. “Ben, you cannot imagine the degree of trepidation I feel at the mere thought of ‘upgrading’ that system in there. I know it’s years out of date, but until recently, it did what I needed it to do – most of the time – and it was *there.* I see the students toting around those infernal machines, taking notes in class, talking a million miles a minute about on-line gaming, and emails and- and cheeping and God knows what all else, until I feel like Alice gone down the rabbit hole.” He sighed and took another reviving swallow of tea. 

 

Ben grinned. “I think you mean tweeting, not cheeping. But go on.”

 

“*Tweeding*?” Quinn frowned in consternation. “How exactly does one ‘tweed’ on a computer, may one ask?”

 

“No, love, we’re not talking about a jacket,” Ben said patiently. “Twitter is an on-line social media app, and people *tweet* each other on it.” 

 

Quinn shook his head. “It’s a bloody foreign language! Ben,” he continued earnestly, “I teach *biology,* not computers, and for good reason. I can barely work the remote for the projector in the lab; you of all people should know that by now. I’d be eternally grateful if you could find it within yourself to take this burden off of my shoulders. For *pay,*” he added sternly, forestalling Ben’s protest again. 

 

It made sense, Ben supposed, in a “Quinn-tessential” sort of way. If he had to actually go out and hire somebody to make even the relatively minor changes Ben was suggesting, he’d likely be paying out some big bucks. And he’d probably need to update the wiring and the phone jacks in the walls, especially if he could talk Quinn into a wireless router, which would free both of them to work anywhere in the house. Hell, the whole place might need to be rewired just to bring it up to code. But once Quinn understood that the Internet was more than just a connection to the campus servers, he’d be bound to be more enthusiastic about the idea. Did the man know the Louvre and all those museums he loved had their own websites? Ben could picture a blissful Donovan propped up in bed, cataloging his favorite artists and sculptors. *Naked.* Oh yeah, definitely worth pursuing. He struggled to bring his attention back to the conversation at hand.

 

“Besides,” Quinn was saying, casting an arm across Ben’s shoulders and giving him an affectionate squeeze, “a formal consulting agreement means less speculation as to why you’re seen coming and going from here in the evenings or on weekends. You have been retained to upgrade my humble home and to help modernize ‘poor outmoded Professor Donovan.’ You’ll be the campus miracle worker, a bloody hero. The student body will raise your statue outside the science building.” 

 

The nibbling kisses on Ben’s ear made him shiver. Quinn knew his every erogenous zone and didn’t hesitate to take advantage, the devil. Closing Ben’s fingers over the credit card, he whispered silkily, “Do we have a deal?”

 

“Well…” Ben fumbled for reasons to continue the argument, but the warm breath across the back of his neck and Quinn’s close proximity were making it hard to think clearly. "Quinn… quit it… You don’t need to pay me… Oh, that’s nice… No, I’ll do it for free. You- you just buy the equipment, okay? Cut it *out,* damn it, I’m trying to… Oh yeah, and find some strong backs and weak minds to move that fucking desk."

 

Quinn gave a heavy sigh and moved regretfully back to the counter. "You leave me no choice, Ben. I see I shall simply have to withhold sex.”

 

Ben stared, confounded by the non sequitur. "What? Now you're saying you want to pay me for *sex?*”

 

"No," Quinn said, eyes twinkling mischievously. "I didn't say I was going to pay you *for* sex. I meant I won’t pay you *with* sex."

~end~


End file.
